


Shot (Me Out of the Sky)

by agenthill



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: She hesitated for only a moment, but sometimes a moment is all that stands between life and death.  (It is not better to have loved and lost if the losing was by one's own hand, but better, instead, never to have loved at all.)Or,Angela fully realizes the problem with dating one of her patients.





	1. Fall Apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hinterlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/gifts), [lesbeeian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbeeian/gifts).



> Follows the events of (Hotter Than a Jet Stream) Burning.
> 
> For Mia and Skitch, the best bros in the universe.
> 
> [Crossposted to Tumblr.](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/post/152796776006/shot-me-out-of-the-sky)

As much as Angela would love to say it is the case, on the battlefield Fareeha is not, generally speaking, at the forefront of her mind.  So long as they are not facing Talon, there are usually not snipers of a high enough caliber to down Fareeha, and so Angela need not worry, and can focus her attentions upon her more reckless teammates, with Lena, Genji, and Hana taking up much of her time.

(Usually. ) 

(Generally.)

(Usually and Generally cannot always be enough.)

This is not, however, the case always, and although Angela has always feared that this might catch up to her, that the day might come when neither she nor Ana (nor Lucio and Zenyatta )  were able to protect Fareeha, that the day might come when her inattention proved deadly.  Still, she never truly believed it would happen, allowed herself to pretend they were safe, that _Fareeha_ was safe, and now she must pay for it.

(She only hopes that Fareeha will not pay with her life.)

(She only hopes that Fareeha lives long enough for her to atone.)

(She only hopes that none of this is real, that she is sleeping, Fareeha beside her.)

To see Fareeha in her Raptora is a thing of beauty, and awe.  In her armor, she seems invulnerable, her posture assured and stance strong.  Always, she has told Angela not to worry, that she will be as safe as can be, that she is an expert, a _professional,_ and, foolishly, Angela has found herself believing these claims.  She cannot help but trust Fareeha's words, even against her better judgement, even against what she knows, logically, to be true.

(The truth is this: Fareeha is flesh and blood, the same as she is.  Fareeha is human, just as she is.  Fareeha is vulnerable, just as she is.)

(The truth is this: before she is a hero, Fareeha is a woman, and while heroes may never die, women can be killed.)

(The truth is this: Fareeha may die, today, on Angela's operating table, and try as Angela might, she may be powerless to stop it.)

On the battlefield, Fareeha commands the sky—beside her, Angela is merely a visitor, a guest, a tourist granted permission to access the realm of another—and so it is that Angela could not have anticipated that another might appear to rival her, that they may face an equally skilled aerial combatant, that even in her moment of victory, Fareeha might still be struck, and fall.  It does not occur to Angela to watch for Fareeha falling, falling, falling further and faster than Angela could have possibly imagined until it happens.  It does not occur to Angela that Fareeha might fall in battle—and, then, quite suddenly, she has.

(Suddenly, Angela's world is shifting.)

(Suddenly, Fareeha is being forever changed.)

(Suddenly, all which was certain but moments before is no longer so.)

Even as it is happening, Angela is unaware.  One moment, Fareeha is in the air, at her back, defending her position as she tends to Lena; the next, Lena's eyes are going wide, and she is shouting, and all Angela hears is a terrible crash.  Then, silence.  Dead silence.  Not a word from Fareeha, or Lena, nothing over the comms.  Not one of them acknowledges what has happened, gives word to it—for a moment, Angela does not realize, in fact, just _what_ has occurred—for Fareeha to fall, it is unfathomable.

(Sometimes, there is nothing to be said.)

(Sometimes, talking to fill the silence is impossible.)

(Sometimes, silence says more than one thousand words ever could.)

But then, from Ana, a cry, " _Fareeha!”_ a breach of protocol, to use a name on the field, forbidden, and dangerous—but Fareeha is not in more danger for her name having been said, could not be in more danger than she is at the present, and the word, the break from routine, is enough, enough for Angela's thoughts to crystallize into one terrible conclusion.

(Even then, there are no words for what she is realizing.)

(No words accompany her thoughts.)

(Merely this: a dread, building in her, washing over her, it starts in her heart and spreads outwards, pumping through her veins, until at last it reaches her brain and spurs her to action.)

From there, a blur.  It is immediately apparent that Fareeha is in need of medical attention, more than can be given on the field, more than Angela can provide here, without equipment and in a position of tactical weakness.  Lena is left where she lies—well enough to make her own way back to safety, or to rendezvous with another of their teammates for medical attention to what remains of her injuries—Angela's focus is solely on Fareeha.

(On Fareeha, who has lost her usual dynamism, and lies still.)

(On Fareeha, whose limbs lie splayed at angles which Angela knows can only mean terrible things.)

(On Fareeha, with breathing is notable only for the degree of labor it seems to require, chestplate crumpled as it is upon her chest.)

Despite the weight of the Raptora, despite her own weakness, Angela can lift Fareeha, with the help of the Valkyrie suit.  When she designed it, she ensured it would enable her to carry patients significantly larger than herself, and now, Fareeha in her arms, she is grateful for it, for the ability to carry Fareeha to safety immediately, for every second is precious, every moment Fareeha is not being healed is a moment longer spent bleeding, is a moment longer with the shattered Raptora pressing into her skin, near her lungs, her _heart_ , every moment is one too many, is closer to an end which Angela cannot bear to give word to, even now.

(A future without Fareeha is something she cannot fathom.  Just two years ago, they were nearly strangers but now, now she could not bear to lose Fareeha, does not know how she might press on without her.  Angela has lost many people, in her life, but Fareeha would be one loss too many, one death too much, one sacrifice too great.)

(It scares her, almost more than losing Fareeha, the thought of not being able to survive without her.)

(It scares her to think of herself as needing anyone.)

On their way to the transport, they encounter no enemy combatants—or, none left living.  Ana, from her perch, has cleared them a path, is doing all she can, in her own way, or so Angela will learn later.  Now, it is not even noticeable to her, is taken for granted as her mind is entirely elsewhere, is solely on the woman in her arms.  All of Angela's focus, all of her attentions, are on Fareeha and Fareeha alone.

(As they should have been, she thinks.  For Fareeha ought to have been her priority all along, is her love, is more meaningful to her than anyone in this world.)

(But, no, that is not true, cannot be true, should not be true.  Overwatch has long been Angela's family, and they still are.  She cannot prioritize one of them above the others, cannot protect Fareeha if it will mean endangering Mei, or Jesse, or Reinhardt.  All of them are important to her, and always have been.)

(Still, she cannot help but feel, however wrongly, that Fareeha is her priority before any of the others that Fareeha ought to be her priority—this scares her too.)

In her arms, Fareeha is simultaneously light and heavy.  Light, for Angela would carry any burden to save her.  Light, for adrenaline rushes through Angela's vein, making impossible tasks easy.  Light, for she is nothing compared to the weight of Angela's guilt in this moment.  Yet she is so very, very heavy as Angela thinks of losing her, so heavy as Angela realizes her failure to defend those whom she loves—now, and before.

(No failure of Angela's, now, comes without a reminder of the past, of Reyes.  No failure exists outside of the context of her failure to save Overwatch.  No failure is not an echo of something far greater.)

(What could be greater than this?)

(Which is worse, to save, and in doing so, twist, or to fail to save entirely?  She does not know, but looking at Fareeha's twisted limbs, she may need, now, to decide.)

Brigitte is at the transport, ready to relieve Reinhardt of his armor when the mission concludes, and for once Angela is glad of her presence, rather than being angry that Reinhardt has dragged a woman as young as she into war.  For once, she is a blessing, seeing Angela's approach and rushing into open the hatches of their dropship, helping Angela to the emergency operating station, standing by in case Angela has any requests for her.  Now, Angela is doing just that which she has always criticized Reinhardt for, stealing the girl’s innocence, exposing her to horrors that no one is ever truly ready to see—but for now, Angela cannot bring herself to care, not with Fareeha lying beneath her on the operating table, paler than she ought to be, warmth gone from her skin tone.

(Perhaps Angela ought to care more, about Brigitte seeing this, for Fareeha would.)

(Perhaps Angela ought not to so easily compromise her own moral code when those whom she loves are in danger.) 

(Perhaps Angela ought to be better, stronger, more able to resist her impulses and more stalwart in her beliefs—but she is not, not now, not like this.)

On the table beneath Angela, Fareeha stirs, regains consciousness, briefly, and Angela sedates her as swiftly as possible.  While it is a good sign that she is responsive, that she has woken, Angela needs her still, both as a doctor—in order to operate—and as a lover; in fact, in the latter role, she is grateful that Fareeha was unresponsive for as long as she was, that she has not had to hear Fareeha's screams, that she will not have to look Fareeha in the eye and tell her that she may need to amputate, that she can almost pretend, for a moment, with no indication of her consciousness, that this is someone, anyone else on the operating table, and not Fareeha.

(But, of course, that cannot last long.)

(Of course, Fareeha is only ever herself.)

(Of course, Angela cannot distance herself as much as she needs to, wants to, can only set herself so far apart when the woman she loves is right beneath her.)

With her knowledge of armor and time assisting Reinhardt, Brigitte is more than able to assist with the removing of the Raptora, a fact for which Angela is immensely grateful.  Countless times, she has watched Fareeha strip herself of her armor, countless times she has assisted in the removal of the suit, but now, now Angela hesitates, now she worries about pressing the wrong buttons, finds her muscle memory fails her.  They have prepared for this, practiced the removal of the Raptora for just this necessity, but it is not enough, is not able to stop all thoughts of mechanics from flying from Angela's mind.  With Genji, with Reinhardt, with Hana, she has never had this problem and yet, here she freezes.

( _This is why doctors ought not to get involved with their patients_ she can practically hear her old instructors chiding her.)

( _My patients are the only people I know,_ she thinks in response, _I would be alone without them._ )

( _It doesn't matter,_ she hears her own voice tell her, _It doesn't matter if you would be alone otherwise, your happiness is not worth the risk to others—the neglect of your duty._ )

For the first time in decades, Angela's hands tremble as she raises the scalpel.  She knows, of course, what she must do, knows that this is best for Fareeha, that this will make her love better, that this is her _job_ , but she hesitates at the very thought of doing something which, in some way, hurts Fareeha, even if it is to help.  This is wrong, so wrong,

(She knows, now, has always known, why allowing herself to love her patients was a mistake.)

(Foolish, she was, to think that loving Fareeha might be different.)

(Solitude is preferable to this, to the risk of losing those she loves to her own incompetence, to her own sentiment, to her own humanity.  Better to be alone than to be responsible of the deaths of those one loves.)

Steeling herself, she steadies her hands, pushes her emotions back, sets to work.  Shrapnel is removed, organs are repaired with nanobiotics, broken legs are re-set in order to heal.  She works, and works, and does not stop to think about what is happening, does not allow herself to still for even a moment, not for anything, for if she breaks focus she fears her emotions will come rushing back, that she will once again be unable to shove back her fears, will be unable to steady her hands, will be unable to think beyond _no, no, please_ Gott _no._

(As it is, she finds herself mouthing the words of prayers she remembers from her mother.)

(Often, she has prayed out of habit, out of obligation, has only said words required of her.)

(Not now, not now.  Now, she feels the prayer, deep within her, feels herself reaching towards something greater than herself, as her Rabbis have always told her she would.)

Stitch by stitch, minute by minute, Fareeha comes back together, her broken form coalescing into something more familiar.  She will have scars from this, if Angela allows it, will feel the ache of the breaks deep in her bones in years to come, on cold winters' nights, but she will _live,_ Angela is sure of it.  She will live, no matter how close she may have been to death, she is no longer in immediate danger, is in a position where her survival is, at long last, secure.  Perhaps, this will change her, perhaps, she will not fly so freely as once she did, but this much is certain: she will _live_ , and that is what matters.  Life, above all else, is to be cherished.

(They have discussed this, she and Fareeha, have discussed her wishes in case of a major injury.)

( _Whatever it takes,_ Fareeha has said to her, grim-faced.  _Whatever it takes that I might fight another day, that I might hold you once more._ )

(Here, now, Angela wonders if she truly meant that.)

Once, during the operation, she flatlines, and Angela must resurrect her, but only the once.  Once is acceptable, once is something Angela can do, is within the limits of her abilities, but the body cannot handle the load of nanites necessary to resurrect any more than that much, and Angela is grateful that she need not worry about using more primitive methods.

(Had it happened a second time, Angela does not know what she would have done. )  (She would have done what she always does: _whatever it takes_.)

(That does not scare her nearly as much as it should.)

By the time Angela is done, the team has returned.  By the time she is finished, they have congregated outside the room, waiting, waiting, to hear the news.  By the time Fareeha is whole, again—or as whole as a person can be, after going though such an ordeal—the mission is complete, the transport is halfway back to Watchpoint: Gibraltar, and Ana is more than ready to hear the news, has been left long enough with the fate of her daughter unknown.

(When Angela says Fareeha is well, that she will recover fully, Ana collapses onto her, speaking her native tongue so quickly Angela can scarcely make out the words.)

( _Praise Allah,_ she hears, _that my daughter is safe._ )

(Privately, Angela thanks her own god for the same.)

There are questions, from everyone, but she waives them off, once the most important question—Ana's—has been answered.  The rest can wait.  Debriefing will come, and she will answer them then, will see that everyone is satisfied, will be sure that everyone knows all that they must, and more, but not now.  Not now, when she is so tired she can barely stand.  Not know, when everything is too bright, and too loud, and just...  just...  too much. 

(They crowd her, with their questions, and she feels like the air she is breathing is long stale, she cannot get enough of it.)

(They are close, close too close, she has to get _away._ )

(If she stays to speak a moment longer, stays to answer one more question, she knows she will not be able to contain herself, will break down in front of them—but she is their medic, their support, and she must stay strong.)

Mumbling an explanation, she darts away, into the bathroom of the small transport, places trembling hands on either side of the sink, and looks herself in the eye in the mirror.  She is a mess, all of her, hair askew, eyes tired, blood stained, but she is _here._ She is here, and Fareeha will live, and there is nothing more to be done now, is nothing that can be done until Fareeha wakes, until the nanites wear off, until they have reached a better facility.  As her breath fogs the glass, she reminds herself that she is breathing, that the air which fills her lungs is enough, and forces herself to calm down.

(Think of calming things.)

(Think of early morning sunrise while the team is asleep.  Think of cocoa before bed.  Think of Fareeha's smile.  Think of Fareeha's laugh.  Think of Fareeha, flying through the air, watching over—)

(Think of anything but that.)

Slowly, slowly, she calms herself, her nerves, but even as the anxiety and panic fade, the problem remains.  Still, her thoughts return to her hesitance, even if it was only momentary.  Still, she cannot think of anything but failure.  Still, she cannot forget that sometimes a moment is all that stands between life and death.

(A moment was too long—she might have lost Fareeha.)

(It is not better to have loved and lost if the losing was by one's own hand.)

( _Better,_ she thinks, _never to have loved at all._ )


	2. Slow Dance on Broken Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is forever late because I literally died between November and today. And I really do mean literally. Flatlined and everything, but luckily I live near the biggest cardiac center in the area! So I'm here... very late... but alive!
> 
> This chapter also took forever because it contains some sensitive-ish content that I wanted to make sure I got right (you can check the end notes for what that is, if you're concerned), and so this is the fourth complete rewrite of this chapter. IDK, I just wanted to get it right. So there's that, too.
> 
> It's time for... the most unsexy smut I've ever written.
> 
> As always, crossposted to [tumblr](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/tagged/plighted%20hands), where I've been way more active, and posting a bunch of headcanons/minifics as ask replies.

As expected, Fareeha recovers swiftly. How could she not, under the watchful eyes of both her mother and Angela? The first night, Angela had held her for observation in her Med Bay, in order, she claimed, to monitor Fareeha’s vitals—and monitor she did, not because Fareeha needed it, but for her own peace of mind; she could not have rested easily having seen Fareeha in such a state, could not have calmed herself without being able to see displayed before proof that Fareeha’s heart still beat, that she would not fade in her sleep—and, in truth, she is monitoring Fareeha still. Never has Angela been the one of them left awake, before, used as she is to working herself to the point of exhaustion and passing out on the nearest available flat surface, but now—now she finds herself feigning sleep until she hears Fareeha’s breathing even out, and then rising immediately to check her vitals, placing fingers on a wrist and an ear to her chest, listening, listening, needing the assurance that nothing has gone wrong, that Fareeha is alive and well.

(For now, that is. Perhaps, she has a scar or two more, small imperfections writ into her flesh, but that is only because she has requested that Angela leave her such reminders. For now, it is almost, almost as if it never happened, as if Fareeha did not almost bleed out before Angela’s eyes. But how long until she is injured again?)

Angela is an excellent doctor, she knows this, intellectually, and what is more, she believes it, with as much conviction as she believes anything. All her life, Angela has been told she is one of—if not the—best alive, and she does not doubt that. So why, now, does she worry? If anyone could have healed Fareeha, it is her. She would not have chosen anyone else to do so, would not have trusted them, and would not normally doubt herself after an operation such as this. In the past, she has done more, has worked in worse conditions, has had patients who were less willing to follow her continuing care instructions, yet still, she worries.

(How could she not? What Angela loves, she loses, always, always, and she cannot shake the feeling that it is only a matter of time until Fareeha is lost to her too.)

She worries, but she need not, for here is Fareeha, before her, healed, hale, whole. Here is Fareeha, with whom she has not shared her terrible fear, her certainty that what they have cannot last. Here is Fareeha who deserves more, deserves better, and who cannot understand what it is that Angela is experiencing as of now, for Angela has not shared it with her.

(As with so many things, Angela is incapable of speaking what she knows, in her heart, to be the truth. To give voice to it would be too terrible, would shatter the fragile peace they have built for themselves. To give voice to it would be to invite in the trouble she knows awaits.)

Nothing, truly, has changed for Fareeha, nothing is different than it was before the incident. Perhaps she was a bit rattled at first, was shaken by what happened, but she has survived worse before—and believes she will do so again—so after a few days, she returned to her normal self, with all her normal wants and desires, her normal jests, her normal aura of confidence, of assuredness.

(Both of them, it is true, are prone to second-guessing outside of their work, are plagued by anxiety and regrets, but unlike Angela, Fareeha masks it so well one would never know unless she told them. Some days, Angela envies her that. Most, however, she is happy simply to have that warmth in her life, is grateful for the impact Fareeha has had on her life. She does not know, now, how she will learn to live without it, how she could ever, ever go back to what she was before.)

When, after a week, Angela clears Fareeha for a return to normal activity, it does not come as a surprise to her that one of the first things Fareeha does is make a terrible innuendo. Such is her way, and even before the injury, it had been a while, between the mission and the two of them having been tired from training. It is completely reasonable that she would be interested in intimacy.

(Angela is rather surprised to find that she, herself, is not, but decides that perhaps she will be more enthusiastic when Fareeha is actually nude before her, that she might grow interested as the night progresses. It is not an unreasonable assumption, given her past experience.)

So Angela voices no objection that night when Fareeha kisses her with purpose. If anything, she kisses her back more deeply than she might usually, in order to impress upon her just a fraction of what it is she has been feeling in the past week—the fear, the worry, the all-consuming love for Fareeha which drives both. Without a word ever passing between them, she tries to say as much as she can, moving carefully to straddle Fareeha, sensitive still of her recently-broken leg.

(The leg is healed, Angela tries to remind herself, it is whole, and fine, but she cannot shake the image of last week from her mind, cannot help but want to avoid jostling it.)

Tonight, there will be no foreplay—it has been more than long enough, and it is Angela who usually requires it, not Fareeha, so as long as she sets the pace, it will not be questioned—all Angela wants is to be as close to Fareeha as possible, to feel their skin against one another, to feel her lover’s heart hammering against her chest and know it still beats. Best, then, to be expedient, best not to tarry.

(For now, at least, they have the option of taking it slowly on another night. Angela may not be able to shake the certainty that their days are numbered, but this shall not be the last of them. Not if she can help it.)

Quickly as she can, unbuttons Fareeha's shirt, hands trembling lightly—with anxiety, for once, and not with want. When she touches her lover's exposed skin it is with reverence, with awe, with the feeling that she is so, so very fortunate to be able to do this once more. Always, she is gentle—unless they negotiate otherwise beforehand—but now, more so than ever. Even though she knows Fareeha is safe, can feel her strong heart beat in her chest (a motion Angela disguises by kneading the breast, teasing lightly at the nipple), can keep track of her pulse from where she kisses at the base of Fareeha's neck, even though she _knows_ her lover to be well, and whole, she cannot help but feel that she is fragile, that a wrong touch might break her, and them with it.

(And yet, for all that this moment is one of exceptional tenderness for Angela, Fareeha does not notice—or, if she does, does not comment. And how could she know? Angela is careful, very careful, to not meet her eyes, to disguise her touches as ones of lust. This is enough, this can be enough, this will be enough, if she simply tells herself so.)

When Fareeha, in turn, moves to divest Angela of her clothing, she shrugs off her hands, and hopes that her reluctance will be passed off as a result of her occasional fondness for staying clothed during sex, and not as what it really is—the result of her fear that if she is laid bare before Fareeha literally, then she will be so metaphorically as well, that Fareeha will see her anxieties, her fears, will know that she _hesitated,_ that she is, in her way, hesitating still, and will hate her for it.

(She knows, of course, on some level, that Fareeha would never hate her for being afraid, could never, but this fear is just another way of dealing with her greater fear, that she will lose Fareeha in a more permanent sense. To hide one fear with another feels like a lie, like cowardice—but she has no recourse, knows no other way of dealing with her problems but to ignore them until they disappear or consume her.)

So, in other ways, she does not hesitate, is more forward than ever, taking control of them both as she tilts back Fareeha's head with one hand, sucks at her neck, uses the other to guide one of Fareeha's hands down between her own legs, slipping it under the waistband of athletic shorts and urging her to move, rhythm none to slow or gentle. It is enough to distract, and more than. She can feel, beneath her mouth, that her lover's pulse is quickening, can hear the soft gasps that escape Fareeha's lips, knows from the way her thighs tense and intense beneath her that if she were to look Fareeha in the eyes she would see pupils blown wide, that if she were to reach down, too, she would feel wetness and heat.

(It is easier, like this, with Fareeha very much _alive_ beneath her, to know that her lover is well. Is easier when she does not have to strain to hear Fareeha's breathing, does not have to surreptitiously check for her pulse, when she knows that if she feels wetness on Fareeha's skin it is sweat, and arousal, and certainly, certainly not blood.)

When Fareeha's other hand moves to her center, Angela brings it instead to her ass, murmurs an assurance that she is not there yet, but she will be, soon, and they can deal with her after Fareeha is finished, yes? Fareeha is more than happy to oblige, pulling Angela to rock against her wrist, to grind against the hand with which she is currently fucking herself.

(Although she tells herself that soon, soon, the feeling in her stomach will shift from anxiety to arousal, a part of her feels as if she has lied to Fareeha, even if indirectly. It is something she has never done before, and she only feels worse for it, and that brings her even further from the truth, too. What she wants is to please Fareeha, to alleviate her worry, and to be close to her. Lying is not close, takes them further, but what else can she do? She would rather not have this conversation, would not trouble Fareeha with her fears, and if she were honest Fareeha would surely ask, concerned as ever. So, a lie. _Only the one_ , she tells herself. _Only the one_. One too many.)

While their touches do little for her, do not help to bring her closer to the edge, or even truly, to the point of arousal at all, the same cannot be said of Fareeha, whose body now shines with sweat, and whose breathing grows ever louder in Angela's ear. This, at least, is mollifying—at least she can do this much, can please Fareeha, who deserves this, and more, Fareeha, who deserves happiness, health, and pleasure, Fareeha, who deserves all the things Angela ought to give her, but fears she cannot.

(For while she may worry that she cannot do enough for Fareeha in other ways, may fear the day she is too slow to save Fareeha, may fear that another might make her lover happier, she knows, at least, she can do this, she knows that together, like this, nothing from the battlefield can hurt them, in mind or in body, and that is _enough._ It has to be, for now. Perhaps it is not all that she wishes she might give Fareeha, is but it is _something,_ is a moment of peace. One more happy memory before things break. One moment of respite before the inevitable. One instance of bliss, of closeness—or the appearance of it—before things break, as they always do.)

"I love you," Fareeha gasps as Angela moves to suck a bruise on the delicate skin of her neck. "I love you," she says, just as she has a thousand times, and, although Angela has responded in kind every time but the first, tonight she does not answer, eyes fixed upon the mark she left with her own mouth.

(It is not like her to hesitate—here, in their bed, or anywhere—is something she has trained herself out of as a first responder, as a surgeon, as a soldier, but now, she does, seeing the mark begin to bloom on Fareeha's skin. It is not the mark she left that she sees, in that moment, is not the bruise which Fareeha will wear tomorrow with pride, but instead the injuries she has sustained in battle, those which Angela treated, those which she saw nearly take the life of the woman she loves. It is not what she should be thinking about, not what she should focus on, but how can she not? How can she look at Fareeha and not see her as she was, then, weaker than ever before? How can she forget that fear?)

"Angela?" Fareeha's voice cuts through her thoughts, pulls her back into the present, and probably, she means only to say that she is close, means only to warn Angela that this will not last too much longer, but before she can Angela is cutting her off, is murmuring into her skin a mess of words, of _I love you_ s and _You're perfect_ s and _Please_ s which she hopes will be passed off only as the result of arousal, and not what they truly are.

(What they are is a plea, that Fareeha will be safe in the future, a thank you, for the fact that Fareeha is here, beneath her, breathing, and not lying still on a table, a promise, that she will not fail her again, as she nearly did before.)

" _Angela,_ " repeats Fareeha, but this time it is not a question, is a statement, an affirmation—of life, yes, but also a response to Angela's words, and therefore one of love. " _Angela,_ " says she, and Angela wishes her voice could evoke such emotion, that she could say half as much with hundreds more words than Fareeha can with just the one.

(At the heart of all of this, that is Angela's problem: an inability to speak, and to say what it is she truly means when she does so. Speaking is difficult for Fareeha also, they are both of them accustomed to action, but she is undeniably better at it than Angela is, can put to words her thoughts and feelings far better, when she needs to.)

All Angela has to reply to her with is touch, is hand moving up to brush at the tattoo under her eye, tender, for she cannot shake the fear that Fareeha is fragile, now, her other hand pushing against Fareeha's own, adding to the pressure just slightly. She brushes her lips over Fareeha's own, still without saying a word, and it is enough. It is enough for Fareeha, who can supply pressure enough herself to get off without Angela, and just needed something slightly more, needed much like Angela does, now, an assurance that she is _there_. Just a touch more is enough, for now.

(All Angela has is touch, and even that, she did not have before Fareeha. How did she speak, before? She does not remember. How will she ever be able to speak again, when this is over? What would be worth saying?)

Beneath her, Fareeha tightens, shakes, relaxes, pulling inwards and then pushing out, before she comes to rest, catching her breath, opening her eyes, and smiling against Angela's lips.

(Normally, Angela would be pleased, might tease her a bit, for the faces she makes, but instead, all Angela can think, hearing her ragged breath, is how faint it had been just a week before, and all she can think of the stillness, as Fareeha relaxes, is the stillness of then. What Angela sees is not a little death, but a true one. Whatever arousal might have been sparked is well and truly killed with it.)

"So," says Fareeha, having returned to herself, with a smile curling at the edge of her lips, "your turn."

(Angela almost, _almost,_ says no, but what she wants, more than anything, is to not discuss this and to have Fareeha go to sleep, so that she might watch over her once more. If she declines, Fareeha will know something is wrong, will know that something troubles her, and she cannot have that conversation yet, is not ready to.)

Angela shifts herself to straddle the thigh of Fareeha's uninjured leg, grinds against it, gasps _please,_ and brings Fareeha's (slightly sticky) free hand under her shirt to her waist, steadying herself.

(All of this does nothing for her, sexually, does not arouse or excite, but it puts Fareeha right where she wants her, allows her to hold and be held by Fareeha, allows her to feel Fareeha's breath hot against her skin, and to touch as much of her body as she is able. In the moment, they move together, and that is enough, and more than. Like this, she can know that Fareeha is here, with her, and well, can see and feel undeniable proof of life.)

But it cannot last. Angela knows that if she takes too long, Fareeha will try to help her, will want to touch her, and that Angela does _not_ want.

(That, Angela does not _deserve._ She nearly failed Fareeha, nearly lost her; how could she ask that Fareeha do anything for her?)

So, for the second time that night, she lies. She buries her face in Fareeha's neck, relying on the pressure to redden her cheeks, and holds her breath for a moment, making her breathing irregular—her pulse, she need not worry about, she is anxious enough as it is that she need not fake that—and then, content with her efforts, tenses in Fareeha's arms, holds still for just a moment, before jerking her hips slightly more erratically for a few seconds. It is not _spectacular,_ is more typical of what a slightly subpar orgasm might look like, but it is real enough that she does not think Fareeha will be suspicious.

(She tries to tell herself it is not a lie, but it is. Before tonight, she never felt the need to mislead Fareeha, to deceive her, and now, she has done it twice. What she wanted—needed—was to be close to Fareeha, to keep touching her, to know that she was well, and she thought this would be the best way, would help her, but if anything, it has hurt more, and they are further, now, than they were before.)

Still in Fareeha's arms, she hums tiredly, feigns that she is about to fall asleep, so that Fareeha will do so, as well, and she can return to her vigil, can return to checking Fareeha's pulse in a way that is easier, that does not require she lie, or that she be vulnerable.

(Angela does not like to lie, but it seems she is good at it. Fareeha does not even ask that she remove her clothes before she 'sleeps,' and her too-dry underwear will go undiscovered.)

As she lies beside Fareeha's half-asleep body, Angela wonders for how long she can sustain this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had three people read over this and they all said consent was 100% clear to them... which is good because I do want to make clear that some aspects of this scenario are drawn from personal experience and, to me, having sex for reasons besides getting off can still be fully consensual... even if you fake an orgasm at the end. Hopefully, you felt the same. I tried very hard to avoid verging into uncomfortable territory for people. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from the The Careful Ones song of the same name.
> 
> Hopefully this finds you well, and you didn't _also_ die since I last posted. LMAO.


	3. We Outgrew Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not actually the one clicking post on this chapter, I've made a friend do it, as AO3 has no "post from queue" option and I'm currently indisposed. So, shout-out to Sarah, who has neither an AO3 nor a tumblr I could credit her with, for posting this.
> 
> Also, shout-out to Sarah for reading literally every fanfic I have ever written, including the really shitty ones when I was eleven, and the arguably shittier ones from when I was thirteen and wrote hundreds of thousands of words in one year. She's seen a lot--most of it bad.

When Angela wakes the next morning, Fareeha has already left to go running, and she thinks, perhaps, that is for the better.  There is no moment of panic which now accompanies her seeing Fareeha's still sleeping form, no morning breath kiss, no question of how she slept—barely, and fitfully.  Even if Angela lied to Fareeha the night before, deceived her in a way she never would have normally, she would not do so again, if she can avoid it.  So it is a relief, to wake up alone, despite the fact that, if she had been asked a month ago, being alone might have been what Angela said she feared most.

(But is this not, in its own way, the consequence of a fear of loneliness, a fear of death, or, more accurately, a fear of being left behind, of once again being the only person in her family, such as it is, left alive?  Is it not the same thing?)

Most mornings, Angela lingers in bed for a good half an hour, or if by some miracle Fareeha is there, too, and not already on her way out to jog, longer. This morning, she rises immediately, showers, scalding hot, to cleanse herself of the grime from the night before, as if she could burn off the feeling of distaste from having lied, the dirt of deception.  She brushes her teeth vigorously, so much so that her gums bleed, and still, the taste in her mouth remains, lingers, clings to her in the way actions make actors, turning her from a person who has lied to a liar.  It is discomfiting, and she finds she likes it not.  

(Even her reflection bothers her, this morning, not the usual trouble of dysphoria but something more, something other, and she finds she can no more meet her own eyes than she could Fareeha's.)

From there, it is a routine morning, if one which is made slightly less pleasant than most by the absence of coffee; by going to the communal kitchen, Angela risks encountering Fareeha, and her caffeine addiction is outweighed by her guilt.  When she works, it is easy to forget about what has transpired—to forget her fear, and herself—and she almost, _almost_ is able to solve the problem she has been working on since before the previous week's mission.  The routine of her work, trial and error, always a new problem to focus on, frees her from thinking any further about Fareeha—until it is time for Zvieri, of course, because then, there is Fareeha, sitting across from her eating lunch just as they do every day.

(Normally, this is when Angela is most likely to experience a breakthrough, to see how the pieces in a problem she has been working on fit together at last. Normally, being with Fareeha clears her mind, allows her to think of things differently, to make different connections after a moment's respite.  Normally, but not today.)

Today, Angela is far too preoccupied with thoughts of Fareeha to make any sort of progress on anything else.  Despite the fact that Fareeha is as animated and entertaining as ever, telling the story of Jesse and Hana's sparring encounter with a great deal of enthusiasm, it is all Angela can do to muster some comment about how she is grateful they avoided any injuries in response.

(She is relieved when Fareeha laughs, and agrees—she certainly was not paying enough attention to the story to know whether or not that was the case, and she would have betrayed her own inattention had there been an injury which Fareeha mentioned one of the other medics had treated.)

Looking at Fareeha is easier here, across the table, and not above her, is easier with her fully clothed, and not nude, is easier knowing Fareeha is in her element, and in no way vulnerable.  Still, a part of Angela cannot quite let go of the fear she carries with her, and the guilt.  She cannot help but think that Fareeha deserves better, better than someone who would lie to her, better than someone else who would see her stop doing what it is she is most passionate about, and live a life of safety.  What Fareeha needs, what Fareeha has always needed, is someone who will support her, and be honest with her, emotionally and verbally.

(Before last week, Angela thought she could be that woman, thought she could accept the risks of Fareeha's life, thought she could be honest with Fareeha, insofar as she allows herself to be honest with anyone.  Now, she is not so sure.  Now, she worries that she will not—cannot continue to support Fareeha in the way Fareeha wants.  Never has she understood Ana better.)

Angela would be hard pressed to think of a time when she was more grateful for a meal ending, but she finds to her dismay she is glad, is _relieved,_ to be away from Fareeha, and back at her work, with any thoughts about battlefields and lying and failing to meet the needs and expectations of others banished from her mind, and replaced with the question of what shape of nanite might be best suited to perform the task at hand.

(For the truth is, Angela is not happy to be away from Fareeha, truly, but happy to be away from herself, from her own thoughts.)  Her lab is, and has always been, a place where Angela feels she is able to check herself at the door, to leave behind her personal problems and focus solely on something bigger, on the sort of problems which affect hundreds, thousands, millions of people.  In turn, this allows her to put things in perspective, to see that, on a global scale, her problems are not so great.

(Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that she is able to ignore her problems, with her attention elsewhere.  In truth, Angela doubts she could claim that she has ever dealt with any of her problems by working, but she is able to push them back long enough to function, to achieve things, and if she is doing well enough to save lives, then that has to be enough, does it not?  What more could she ask for, than the ability to cure death itself?  How could she be dissatisfied, if, when working like she does, she spares others the same fate?  Who is she to say that one life outweighs thousands, even if it is her own?)

So afternoon passes into night, and preoccupied as she is with the problem at hand, Angela nearly, nearly misses Znacht.  Fortunately, the plan for the night was just to eat what the rest of the team had left from their own meal, and so Fareeha is not cross with Angela for having been late—in fact, with Ana there, the two of them discussing a recent call with an old friend from Fareeha's childhood, Angela doubts, for a moment, that they even realized she was not there.

(When she opens the microwave to see a plate, prepared and waiting for her, she feels silly for having thought it, but for just a moment they looked complete, without her, looked for all the world as if they needed no one else.  Angela knows better, knows that the Amari family is far from repaired enough that they can lean on each other for emotional support in the way both of them need, but it does not make the image any easier to shake, does not dispel the feeling that she is intruding, simply by being.  She tries not to let it show on her face when she turns again to face them.)

While both Fareeha and Ana make efforts to include her in conversation, Angela finds that, despite wanting very badly to have a distraction from her own thoughts, she is still struck by the feeling of being out of place, and finds she does not feel she has anything worthwhile to contribute.  This is not the first time that being around the two of them has made her feel as if she were intruding, as if there were something sacrosanct in their bond that she cannot understand, by virtue of having no mother of her own, but it is rare that she feels it so keenly.

(Normally, she is able to reassure herself with the fact that while she may always be jealous of the bond children have with their parents, there is no need for her to worry about Fareeha's affections.  After all, Fareeha and Ana may have an intense bond, but it is far from a _close_ one.  With her concern, now, that her time with Fareeha is limited, however, her feelings are not so easily cast aside, and the meal is even more uncomfortable than the one which preceded it.)

After she eats, she does not return to her quarters with Fareeha, as she so often does, but instead leaves to return to her lab, pleading that she has one more thing to finish before she is ready to retire, one last task to complete. In this, she is not lying, not in words or intent, for she really does just mean to clean up some of the equipment she left lying out in order to make it to the meal at an even vaguely reasonable time, but one thing turns into another, and by the time she looks up from her microscope, it is 02:00, and the only thing somewhat more organized than it was before she entered the lab is her mind.

(That, too, is something to feel guilty about, being glad to be apart from the woman she loves.  It is, however, a relief, to have spent some time away and allowed her feelings of jealousy to calm somewhat.  It would not due for her to be jealous of the fraught relationship Fareeha has with Ana, and would not be fair besides.)

By the time she returns to her quarters, Fareeha has long since gone to bed, and she ends her day much like she ended the one previous, a silent vigil. Every few minutes, for as long as she remains awake, she checks Fareeha's vitals, compares them against what she knows by now to be their baseline, to reassure herself that everything is fine, that Fareeha is _whole,_ and that ought to be more than enough, after the first two times, to calm her.  Everything is fine, is as it should be, Fareeha is as healthy as ever—which is to say, healthier than nearly anyone knows—and yet, the fear lingers, that if she looks away for even a moment, when she looks back Fareeha will once again be bloodied, battered, barely holding on to her life.  

(Everything is as it should be, except for herself.  Fareeha is not the one who is behaving unusually, is not the one exhibiting such a sudden and intense obsession after a traumatic event. But she pushes this thought down, to the back of her mind.  It would not do to linger on such things, not when it draws her attention from Fareeha, lying still on the bed, when Fareeha might be—)

—Fareeha is fine.  Fareeha continues to be fine each time she checks, until at last Angela's body is the one to betray her, and she slips into sleep.

(What she dreams of is unspeakable, and when she remembers it later, she thinks that she is lucky not to have woken half of the base screaming.)

This morning, Angela does not wake alone, she wakes to a kiss from Fareeha, who is getting dressed to leave.  She does not mind the kiss and thinks, perhaps, today will be better, moving to kiss Fareeha on the lips in return.  

(It is not until, after Fareeha has left, and she is washing her hands in the bathroom, that her feeling of dread returns.  It is not a slow remembering, like waking up, but a sudden one, a moment of certainty that the liquid on her hands is blood, and not water, staining her skin rather than cleansing it.)

From that point onwards, little of Angela's day goes well, inside the lab or outside of it.  First, she discovers that she stored a sample improperly the night before, and it is, as a consequence, no longer viable.  Then, she finds herself interrupted by Lena, asking her to look at a rash on her chest—one which turns out to be the result of the chronal accelerator being worn for too long while emitting more heat than normal, and she has to prioritize solving that problem with Winston before she can get back to her own research.  Finally, just as she is about to leave the lab—at last, having had only a short time for any of her meals—Winston knocks over a container of her experimental nanites, and all three of them need to have decontamination showers.

(She barely has time to grab an afternoon meal with Fareeha, like she always does, and misses her evening meal entirely.  Still, thoughts of Fareeha never quite leave her, and she wonders, as she and Winston stand over Lena's chronal accelerator, how it is Emily manages to accept this part of Lena, this danger that she might slip away at any moment, lost again to time.  Angela can barely accept the fact that Fareeha might be shot down, again, despite having some measure of control over the outcome of battles, despite knowing that she will be the one who might save Fareeha, if she falls.)

Troubled by such thoughts, hungry, and smelling of wet genetically-modified gorilla, Angela stumbles back into the quarters she shares with Fareeha even later than she had the previous night, just past 03:30.  It is no surprise to her that Fareeha is, once again, sleeping peacefully, but tonight that is less of a comfort than the previous night, and she thinks to wake Fareeha, just to hear her voice, and reassure herself that all is as well as can be.  Instead, she showers again, hoping that she will rid herself of Winston's particular _aroma,_ lest it linger in their bedroom.

(But scents, like feelings, have a way of sticking to people, and Angela finds herself no cleaner for having showered.)

Her nighttime vigil passes like the one previous, save for a heart-stopping moment in which Fareeha stirs.  For a moment, Angela is frozen, unsure how to explain, to justify, the taking of Fareeha's pulse in her sleep, and she worries what Fareeha will think of it, worries that Fareeha will be annoyed, or cross, or worst of all, that she will _worry._ But Fareeha never fully wakes, merely mumbles something about her smell before falling back into sleep, never cognizant enough to be conscious of the fingers at her wrist, counting heartbeats.

(Shortly after that, Angela sleeps again, but this time, she does not do so long enough to dream, or if she does, it is of something she is unable to recall.)

Again, she wakes to a kiss from Fareeha, this time on her way out of the door, and again, she dares to believe, only for a moment, that her luck might be turning, and today might go well, or at least better than the two previous.

(She ought to have known better—her luck never turns.)

To make up for lost time, she throws herself into work again, and hopes that the complexity of the problem will be enough to clear her mind.  It is not, unfortunately, and instead of her alarm telling her it is time she meets Fareeha for lunch, she knows it is so from glancing at the clock on the wall.

(Her mind, filled with worry and with Fareeha, not that the two are fully separable, of late, kept her from working all morning, kept her worrying about how much longer she can maintain course, things being as they are.)

For all that she looked forward to seeing Fareeha, however, she finds herself once again far away during conversation, mind distant and plagued with what ifs.  It is—well, not unlike her, but it is unlike her to do to _Fareeha,_ and is yet another thing to feel guilty for.

(How can she say that she worries about losing Fareeha, worries about loneliness, when she is not _there_ with Fareeha in the first place?)

So, in the hours between her afternoon and evening meal, Angela for once does not work, but instead sets aside the time to try and think her way through the problem she is currently facing, that of her own inability to accept that Fareeha is alive, and well, of her own inability to see a future.  

(It is not, of course, that she does not _want_ for them to stay together until the both of them are old, and grey, and retired, but she cannot imagine such a reality is possible, frankly, cannot imagine either of them retiring their suits and surrendering their weapons.  Battle will take them—most likely, Fareeha first—just as it has taken everyone in Angela's life.  She is sure of it, as sure as she can be of anything.)

When she eats, she tries her best to engage with Fareeha, to keep up conversation as she always does, a smile on her face and a laugh at the ready when Fareeha makes (another) terrible pun.  She tries, but finds she cannot do so, or not as consistently as she might want.  

(For all that she is there, in the moment, it does not feel so, feels as if she were still far away, and the Fareeha she sees before her is not the true Fareeha, is merely an illusion, while the real Fareeha is still bleeding out on an impromptu operating table in one of their dropships.)

Still, she must do something right, for when she returns to their quarters with Fareeha, it is clear that her lover is none the wiser.  Angela finds herself very quickly pinned to their couch the familiar weight of Fareeha above her, and she wants, very badly, to go along with it, to allow things to follow their usual path—but, remembering three nights earlier, she knows that wanting to be near to Fareeha may not be enough, for now. So, instead, she claims she is tired, having worked late the nights previous, and retires to bed.

(It is not a lie, she thinks to herself, alone in bed, listening to the muted sound of Fareeha preparing for sleep through the bathroom door.  She _is_ tired, but of what?)

That night, she dreams of drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it... a filler-ish chapter. Normally I try to avoid filler but I wasn't sure how to make the emotional transition from "Angela is trying to avoid awkward questions/worried Fareeha is going to die and leave her alone" to "Angela is emotionally distancing herself without even really realizing it/using that distance to lessen what she thinks is the inevitable pain of Fareeha's loss" without it. Also Rady (aka tumblr-user radycat) told me it wasn't actually filler it was "actual character stuff" so w/e I guess.
> 
> Chapter title is from the song by The Careful Ones, and was just a fit tone-wise, not lyrically. No worries about them outgrowing love here. I promise they'll come out on the other side of this one stronger. ;____; No break up fic here, bc 1) they're end game in my heart and 2) I just... can't do break-up fic. Or cheating fic. Or major character death. I'm a softie! I cry really easily! It just doesn't work out.
> 
> Hopefully you're all having nice days, regardless of whether or not you celebrate! 
> 
> As always, I hope you let me know what you think (especially if you're gonna say something nice lmao), and I'll see you... whenever I update next. Which actually has a set date, this time. Now _that's_ character development.


	4. Turn To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this like five times but I still met my personal deadline for updating this poor, neglected fic. Turning over a new leaf!
> 
> Crosspost to [tumblr](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/tagged/plighted%20hands) forthcoming.

One week passes into the next, and before long, Angela has made a habit of avoiding Fareeha under the premise of approaching a breakthrough.  It is not a lie...  until, on the eleventh day, she _does_ solve the issue of nanite structure, and still stays late.  If she is triple and quadruple checking unnecessarily, assigning to this task a priority and urgency it does not truly merit, who need know?  Fareeha is intelligent, yes, but there is no one on base—and, in truth, next to no one in the _world_ —who understands the particulars of Angela's work well enough to call her bluff.  If Angela says that her work is time consuming, if she says it is important, if she says she is sorry, but this truly does require so much time and effort of her—why would anyone doubt her?  Never has she lied like this to them before, after all, never has she deceived her friends as she does now—not with her words, and not so deliberately. 

(She is far more accustomed to concealing things, to choosing not to share what worries her because she considers it unimportant, in the grand scheme of things.  To not tell Fareeha how she is feeling—that is something akin to what Angela has done many times, to many people—it is only the direct lie which is unfamiliar to her, the deliberation behind the deception.)

A part of her feels guilty for it, for this dishonesty, but there _are_ real lives at stake in her research.  Someone, somewhere, will live because she has completed this project just a day or two before expected, who would have died otherwise.  Someone will benefit from this, and so she considers the lie permissible.  A lie told to save lives is no sin.

(Never mind that this is, at its core, for her own benefit, and not for the good of others.  Were it not for her problem, for the thoughts which plague her the instant she leaves her lab, for the fear she has that she will further lie to Fareeha should they speak, for the conviction that Fareeha will look at her and _know_ , were it not for these things, she would still operate on her previous schedule—lives of others be damned.  That is another source of guilt, but an old one, the feeling that any time she spends for herself is time she ought to have spent helping others.  Time and again, it rears its head, and she must work to convince herself that she deserves to live outside of her lab, too.)

A day or two after her breakthrough, Fareeha attempts to convince Angela to take a break, to leave her work; normally, Fareeha would not do so, would respect Angela's work, and its meaning to her, enough to not interfere, but the deception and the hours are beginning to wear on Angela, and it must now be visible on her face.  Angela smiles stiffly, and says she is close, so very close, to solving the problem, and things will soon be the same as they were before.

(In truth, she cannot see how anything could ever be the same again, now that she has lied to Fareeha.  How can they have a relationship if Fareeha cannot trust her?  How can she be worthy of one?  She knows well enough that trust is what Fareeha prizes above all things, because of what happened with Ana.  Never will Fareeha accept a lie from a lover.)

Something must change, Angela knows.  Between the guilt and her physical exhaustion, the current state of affairs is unsustainable, but she does not know how it is she might free herself from this cycle.  The longer she persists, the more certain she is that Fareeha will consider her actions unacceptable, and leave her—but she cannot bear to be with Fareeha, knowing that she has lied, and knowing that she must do so again. 

(A part of her thinks she ought just to tell Fareeha what the original problem was—but how can she?  How can she tell Fareeha that she is afraid that Fareeha will die, that war will steal from her again, that she would prefer Fareeha retire, and _not_ seem as if she is attempting to stop Fareeha from doing that which matters to her most.  If Fareeha could not accept such from Ana _before_ enlisting, then she will never accept it from Angela now.  Angela knows this, has known this, and thought before now she could accept it, thought if she just closed her eyes and emptied her mind, they might freeze in a perfect moment of quiet, and the inevitable would never come to pass.  Foolish of her, to dream.)

Any way Angela looks at it, there is no acceptable solution to her problem, is no answer she could accept—but when has Angela ever stopped at the impossible?  If she can raise the dead then surely, surely, she can do this, can find a way to fix things, to leave the image of Fareeha's broken body behind, and release the guilt she feels, without losing Fareeha—one way or another—in the process.

(Of course, Angela has always been better able to handle bodies on her operating table than other people, and therein lies the problem.  A tumor she could excise, a wound she could stitch, a broken bone, she could set—but dealing with her own fears, her own feelings of guilt and undeservingness?  One might as well ask Angela to make a bullseye with Peacekeeper.)

So, like the scientist she is, Angela does the only thing she can—speaks with a peer, tries to talk through her problem, until one or both of them solves it.  Asking for help has always been difficult for her, but she learned throughout the years that she cannot be an expert in everything, and at times she must rely on others to fill the gaps in her knowledge.  So, she swallows her pride and speaks to Jesse.

(Admittedly, he is an unlikely choice for relationship advice, given that he is currently single, and has spent more time outside of relationships than in them.  But Angela cannot speak to Mei, whose relationship with Satya seems to be so perfect that Angela does not think she would know what to do with an actual problem, such as this one, and Angela cannot speak to Genji, who would certainly tell Lucio, because they are seeing one another, and Lucio, being Fareeha's best friend, would certainly tell her.  Jesse has been in his share of messy relationships, is quite reliable with secrets, and is Angela's closest and oldest friend, besides, so in truth there is no other choice for her.)

When she pleads off of Zvieri with Fareeha, she finds she does not even need to explain herself—Fareeha expected it, at this point, and that hurts Angela more than she could have anticipated that it would, the thought that Fareeha now expects her absence, rather than her presence.  Never did she mean for things to get this far.

(Never did she mean for any of this to happen, at all.)

Jesse does not normally eat at this hour, but he has brought himself a bright red apple anyway, and he crunches on it loudly as Angela details her problem to him, on one of the many landing zones overlooking the watchpoint's cliffs. 

(If they were younger, they might have gone to a roof, or the control tower, but they have learned, over the years, that Ana, too, prefers to be up high, where she has a view of everything, just as she does in battle.  To be in one of those locations would be to risk this conversation being overheard.)

By the time Angela has finished explaining, Jesse has finished the apple, and is sizing up the core, as if attempting to determine whether or not it, too, is worth eating, if only to have something to do with his mouth.

(Years ago, he would have had a cigar to occupy himself, but now, out of courtesy, he does not smoke when the two of them are together.  It is not the same as not smoking at all, but Angela understands that there are some vices that can never truly be quit.)

"Well Angela," he says to her, after a moment's consideration, "That sure is a hell of a pickle you've found yourself in."

(That is far from reassuring.  Being in 'a pickle' is how Jesse describes the situation in which he lost his arm.)

"Yes," she agrees, because she does not know what else there is to say.

(For all that Angela can rail against the impossible in other scenarios, for all that she has never allowed anyone to tell her that she is bound to fail in her work, she has never been able to do the same with relationships.  For as long as she can remember, Angela has been afraid that she will be alone—again—that people will leave her, if they are not taken first.  Jesse's assessment is, then, a foregone conclusion.)

"What're you gonna do about it?" He steals a strawberry from her own lunch, and the _squish_ it makes as he bites it is nowhere near as satisfying punctuation as the apple's crunch would be.

(What does she ever do?  She worries that her friends, her _family_ will leave, and that she will be alone, and so she does her best to not anger them, does her best to cut away all parts of herself which might offend until only the palatable remains, and hopes, against everything, that this time, things will be different.)

"I don't know," says she.  "I was hoping you would have a solution."

(Because for all that she has done to keep those whom she cares about in her life, it has never once worked.  Even Jesse left her, before the Fall.)

"Well," says Jesse, again, long and drawn out this time as he considers, adjusting the brim of his hat as he does so.  "I don't reckon you're gonna like my idea, but I have one."

(Angela could tell, already, from the way he has tilted his hat, brim lowered just slightly to avoid meeting her eyes, that she would not appreciate what it he is going to say.  She may not have the luck necessary to beat Jesse at cards, but she knows his tells well enough by now.)

"You oughta tell her," he says, "Tell 'er the whole thing.  Nothin' else for it but that."

(A part of Angela knew, already, that this was the answer, if she is honest with herself—she simply had hoped there would be another way.  For all that Angela is as gripped by the will to confess as anyone else, the act of doing so has always made her uncomfortable.  Always, she has feared that in doing so she will give others a reason to leave her, will reveal too much of herself, and be pushed away; already, she has revealed more of herself to Fareeha than anyone else, and she does not relish the thought of divulging any more.)

"I can't," says she.  "After what happened with Ana she—that is to say I can't—I _won't_ —be just another person who lied to her.  I don't want to hurt her that way.  She deserves better."

(That, truly, is the crux of things, even if Fareeha does not die in battle, lives to be ninety-seven, she deserves better than someone like Angela, who will lie to her, better than Angela, who will not sleep with her anymore because all she sees, looking at Fareeha, is her death, better than Angela, who checks her pulse in her sleep, over and over, but cannot even speak with her when she wakes.)

Jesse has the gall to laugh, and she is too stunned to respond to that.  "I'm sorry," he says, after a moment, "But I really don't think you oughta worry about that.  Fakin' an orgasm and fakin' your own death ain't exactly on the same level."

(She knows that much, of course, intellectually, but she does not necessarily believe it to be true, and even if she did, she is not sure how Fareeha would react.  Emotions are not rational, and a betrayal is a betrayal, in the end.)

"What if she doesn't think so, Jesse?  You know how much Ana hurt her—how could I contribute to that?"

(When she saw how hurt Fareeha was by Ana's return from the dead, when she saw the toll it took, she told herself she would never do the same to Fareeha, would never put her in the same position as Ana had done, would not force her to go through the same again.  In a way, this feels like a betrayal of that promise.)

"Look," says Jesse, "I know you ain't kin, so it's different, but Fareeha's the forgivin' type, always has been.  If she can forgive Ana leavin', I don't see what'll stop her from forgivin' this.  There ain't even that much to be angry about! You got scared, and did somethin' dumb—same as the rest of us do, 'cept you didn't get shot doin' it."

(Angela is not sure that forgiving is the word for how Fareeha feels towards Ana—she thinks, perhaps, that they are instead working around the issue of their past, and attempting to move beyond it, but that a part of Fareeha will never forgive the hurt she has felt.  But, of course, this is not hers to say to Jesse, is not her secret to divulge, ultimately.  Instead, she will keep things as simple as possible.) "She deserves better than to have to forgive anything, Jesse," says she, "Fareeha has given enough of herself to others on the field—I shouldn't be asking her to do the same off of it."

(After all that she has suffered, Fareeha deserves to take a break, to have somewhere she feels safe, and accepted, and loved, as she is, without having to sacrifice anything in return.  Angela is certain of this, believes it as deeply as she does anything.)

"I don't know what fairytale world you're livin' in, but people lie.  It don't matter who Farah's with, eventually they're gonna lie to her, even if it's over some small stupid thing." They lapse into silence for a moment, as Angela considers his words, before he continues, "Better it be you that's doin' the lyin', and feels bad for it, than someone else.  She deserves someone who talks about her the way you just did.  At least you love her enough to know you fucked up."

(Angela does not necessarily believe Jesse, but she wants to, wants desperately to think that maybe, she could be deserving of Fareeha's love, too.  All Angela has wanted, since the death of her parents, is to feel loved, to feel as if she belongs.  With Fareeha, with this iteration of Overwatch, she has finally found it.  To surrender such might kill her.)

She wants to agree with Jesse, wants to say that he is right, and she is being ridiculous, and she should just talk to Fareeha, and everything will be solved.  Instead, her reply is scarcely more than a whisper, is something she is afraid to say at full volume, "What if I can't?"

(Even if she did believe Jesse, she is not certain she is ready to have this conversation with Fareeha, is not certain that she _can_ say the words she needs to, in the end.  Fear is what brought her here, in the first place—were it so easy for her to overcome then she would not need to worry about being in this situation at all.)

"Angela," says Jesse, and his eyes are soft, almost pitying, in contrast to his words, "You have to.  You don't got a choice.  Either you do it, or you leave her, 'cause you said it yourself—she deserves better'n bein' lied to."

(If Angela thinks it is best for someone, then she will remove herself from their life.  She does not want to burden anyone, does not want to hurt them—Jesse ought to know, by now, better than to suggest something like this to her; even now, sitting right next to him, she is considering it.)

Jesse studies her face, when she does not speak, and then says, " _Angela,_ " nearly whining, "We've talked about this.  I know we have."

(They have, many times, and Angela does not doubt that they will again.  her first instinct will always be to avoid, in order to protect herself from being hurt.  She cannot lose people if she is the one who cuts herself off from them, first, and similarly cannot harm _them_ further, in doing so.  Jesse takes exception to the habit.)

"At least tell me you'll _consider_ talkin' to her?" Jesse asks her.  "You know, before you pull another cut 'n run.  It ain't fair to cut her off without warnin' either, you know.  Might hurt her just as bad."

(And there, Jesse has her.  Angela cannot deny that suddenly cutting Fareeha off would hurt her deeply, and given that Ana did essentially the same, in her un-death, it might hurt doubly so.  By not explaining to Fareeha, Angela only risks further injuring her.  Yet another conundrum.)

"Okay," she says, somewhat shakily.  "I'll try talking but Jesse—Jesse, I'm scared."

(With most other people, Angela would not feel comfortable saying as much, but the two of them have seen each other in worse states, and there is nothing left of herself to hide from Jesse.  There is little point in pretense, after having cut off someone's arm, is little room to deny fear, after having been pulled by someone from the scene of one's first kill.)

"I know," says Jesse, moving the remains of her food from where it sits between them, and pulling her over, "I know you are.  It's okay."

(When she breathes in, face buried in his shoulder, she can smell the remains of a cigarillo clinging to him, just like the one he put in her shaking hands the first time she made a kill.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesse is like, the only person Angela could talk to about this sort of shit, because he's the only one who's as bad as she is with emotions. #Facts.
> 
> Originally Angela had to think her way through all of this emotional shit, rather than talking it out, and then i was like. Okay, no, people aren't gonna want to read TWO CHAPTERS of introspection in a row. So instead, Deus ex Jesse. W/E.
> 
> Chapter title from the The Careful Ones song of the same name. Originally, this was going to be the title for the last chapter, but I switched them. Welp.
> 
> As always, LMK what you think, and I hope you're havin a great day!


	5. Wolf River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by feeling good about myself & my storytelling abilities after a really good D&D session. Also, the reassurances of Mia, Calliope, and Mist.

When Angela finishes her conversation with Jesse, she fully intends to go directly to speak with Fareeha, and to sort the matter out as soon as she possibly can—she knows that wounds left long enough untreated can fester, knows that the same logic applies to her situation, knows that to wait any longer will only exacerbate the problem.  What she does, however, is not got to Fareeha, but back to their quarters, knowing that at this hour she should not expect Fareeha to be there.  Angela tells herself that this is only so that she can clean up, make herself presentable, not approach Fareeha with eyeliner tracks down her face from crying.

Instead, washing her face becomes a shower, and what she intends to be a quick nap before redressing becomes full blown sleep, and by the time she wakes, the next morning, Fareeha and her own courage have left her.

(This should not surprise her so much as it does; Angela has always known fear to be the defining emotion in her life.  Fear of having love, fear of losing it, fear of allowing herself to feel at all, lest something like this happen.  She has, at times, escaped the fear, but it always finds her in the end.)

Knowing that she ought to talk to Fareeha is, apparently, no help to her in breaking the cycle in which she has found herself—it was fear which put her into this situation, and fear will keep her there.  Every time she opens her mouth to speak, every time she finds Fareeha alone, she cannot find the words to say, and must make her excuses and leave.  This is, of course, worse than when she was outright avoiding Fareeha, for then Fareeha believed her to be busy; now, of course, Fareeha _knows_ that there is something else occupying Angela, and Angela knows she knows, for Angela has seen what Fareeha's nervousness looks like, is aware of her looks of anticipation and worry, saw them before when the tension between Ana and Fareeha was at its height and now, now she has brought that uneasiness back, despite her belief that Fareeha deserves _better_ than to be discarded, or left behind.

(What is more, Angela knows that _Fareeha_ would not allow herself to be left behind again.  From her mother, Fareeha tolerates the fact that it happened, but it does not mean she has forgiven Ana, and certainly no one else is important enough to her to warrant such forgiveness.  Both of them know, and know well, that Fareeha Amari deserves more than to go through that pain again.)

For all that Angela feels terribly guilty, it is not enough to force the words from her lips, is not enough to compel her to speak, is not enough that she might confess everything.  For all that Angela feels terribly guilty, she does nothing to ameliorate the situation.  For all that Angela feels terribly guilty—a part of her does not, and that part wins out, every time, compelling her to stay safe in this limbo, rather than risk losing Fareeha's love altogether.

(Perhaps, she thinks, Fareeha's heart is already lost to her, and it was foolish to believe they could have been together forever—what has Angela ever been able to hold onto?  What has she cherished that she has not lost?  Nothing.)

Still, for the better part of a week, Angela _tries._ Even despite her repeated failures, she persists—being a scientist has trained her for this, has taught her that sometimes, things worth doing take hundreds, thousands of tries.  If Angela would not give up on the Valkyrie Suit, if she would not give up on doing the impossible with her nanotech, if she will not give up on her patients, why would she give up on this, on Fareeha? 

(Angela may never have been able to keep a hold on that which she loves, may have found herself alone countless times, but she has learned to fight, to not allow things to slip from her fingers so easily as her mother slipped from her arms thirty years before.  She will not give up so easily now as once she might have.  Now that she has learned, again, what it is to love and to be loved, she never wants to return to loneliness.)

Ultimately, however, Angela is not the one to broach the issue.  Despite her intentions, she is not quite able to make herself speak, is not able to do something so simple as start a conversation.  Instead, it is Fareeha who speaks first.

(Unlike Angela, Fareeha believes in confronting her problems; or, perhaps, her fear of silence and waiting outweigh her fear of broaching difficult subjects.  Angela is not truly sure which, and has never thought it appropriate to ask.  Either way, it tends to fall to Fareeha to end stalemates with both herself and Ana.)

When, one evening in their quarters, Angela once again finds herself regarding Fareeha carefully, watching the steady rise and fall of her breath, Fareeha's voice breaks the silence they have found themselves in, of late.

(The silence which is so stifling during the day, but has protected Angela at night, which even now allows her to hear Fareeha's breathing and to know that she is safe.)

"I can feel you staring," says Fareeha, eyes still closed.

(Angela jumps at the sound and tells herself it is because she is startled to find that Fareeha is awake, and such behavior is not at all out of guilt.  She almost believes herself.)

When Angela does not answer, Fareeha continues, eyes still closed, "I haven't been able to sleep either, you know.  Not with you poking me every few minutes."

( _Oh,_ Angela realizes, _Fareeha has known all along._ How foolish of Angela to have believed otherwise, to have thought that she could escape Fareeha's notice.  After all, Fareeha is perceptive in a way Angela is not, has never been.)

"You never said anything," Angela says, and it comes out as a question, not as a statement like she wants it to be.

(In times like this, Angela always sounds weaker than she wishes she did—she is not so solid as she might like to believe she is, in daylight, is hesitant outside of her own domain.  If only she were strong, like the people she admires.)

"No," Fareeha replies, "I didn't—well, I minded it a bit, because it made it harder to sleep but...  I've missed being close to you.  This way, at least, I know you're still here."

(Of course Angela is here.  She would never—could never—leave.  It is not she who has reason to do so, is not she who is being treated unfairly.)

"I just," she starts, stops, reconsiders her phrasing.  "I never meant to go anywhere.  I told myself, you know, that I'd never do that to you, told myself I wouldn't be another person who cut myself off from you and I—I fucked it all up, didn't I?  Even knowing how much you hate that—I did it anyway."

( _Like your mother before me_ , Angela thinks, and hates the comparison.  She and Ana have never seen eye to eye, so it smarts to repeat the mistakes of a woman who will undoubtedly fault her for it.)

"Why?" Fareeha asks, and does not sound angry.  If anything, she sounds tired, as if having been here before with her mother has taken all the fight from her already, as if she cannot muster the will to blame Angela—or anyone.

(It is worse than if she were angry, to see her like this.  If she were angry, Angela might know how to respond, might allow Fareeha to yell, and both of them feel better for it.  Certainly, Angela deserves that, deserves to be criticized for her decisions of late.  But instead, Fareeha is resigned, and Angela does not know what to do with that.)

"I don't know," Angela says, and truly means it.  For all that she knew in the moment why she was making the decisions she was, for all that her actions made sense then, here and now she cannot fathom them.  When Fareeha says nothing, she adds, "I was afraid."

( _I still am,_ she does not say.  _And I will be, for as long as I can foresee.  I will be until the last of my friends has quit the field and that will never happen._ )

"We all are," replies Fareeha, "Well, of something or another.  You know that.  So, what could be so bad that you can't talk to me about it?"

( _What could be so bad that you would betray my trust,_ is what Angela hears, instead.)

"I don't know I—I don't want to lose you, Fareeha.  I can't—couldn't—if something happened to you..."

(Dimly, Angela is aware that she has begun crying, but she ignores it.  What right has she, to be upset, when she is the one who has wronged Fareeha?  What right has she to cry when she is the guilty party?)

Fareeha finally looks at her now, and her face is illuminated by moonlight, her skin glowing in the dark.  If her eyes are shinier than usual—Angela cannot see.  "I'm not leaving you, Angela."

(When Fareeha reaches out to hug Angela, she nearly flinches away before catching herself.  It is good to allow Fareeha to touch her, is good to be held, is good to feel those arms around her reassuring and strong.)

"I don't know what prompted this, but I don't plan on leaving you any time soon." There is a sureness in her voice Angela envies, a confidence in herself, a degree of resolution Angela cannot imagine.

(Of course Fareeha would not leave easily—why would she, when she knows what it is to be left behind?  Why would she not fight for that which she loves?  Even now, Fareeha is fighting to repair her relationship with her mother, and Angela has seen her determination there—why would this be any different?)

"I almost killed you," Angela whispers, quiet words seeming louder for the silence which surrounds them.

(Suddenly, being held by Fareeha is not comfortable, and all Angela can think is of prying those same arms out of the Raptora suit, remembering the chest she is pulled flush to being cut open.)

"What?" asks Fareeha, jerking back to look Angela in the eye.

(With that little bit of space created between them, Angela is better able to breathe, and hates that she feels the way she does, hates that she has begun to feel claustrophobic in Fareeha's arms.)

"I almost killed you," says Angela, voice firmer this time.  "After you were shot I—I hesitated.  I _never_ hesitate.  Fareeha you could have died! You almost did.  And it's all my fault.  I've been afraid of the people close to me dying since I was a child, became a doctor so that I could save people, and I nearly got you _killed!_ "

(All of this she says looking down at her hands, those same hands which are responsible for all of this.  She cannot look Fareeha in the eye as she says this, cannot imagine what she must be thinking, cannot see disappointment or anger cross her face.)

"Angela," Fareeha says, and makes a choked sound not unlike a laugh, "You didn't—I'm fine, Angela.  Look at me.  I lived, I'm well, it doesn't matter what _happened_ because I'm here, right now, the same as ever."

(A hand tilts Angela's chin up, forces her to look Fareeha in the eye, to see the earnestness of her expression.  Angela does not know what to make of it.)

"It does matter," says she, "It matters because I know it happened, and when I look at you, all I can think of is that I almost lost you, that I almost lost all hope of ever looking you in the eye again.  When I look at you, I don't see you here, as you are, I see you back there, on the operating table and I—I don't know what to do.  I can't look at you, for fear of what I'll see, but I can't look away because if I do, then I worry that something else has happened to you, that you'll disappear entirely, and I'll be here all alone."

(While she speaks, Angela wrings her hands together as if she were washing them, as if she were still standing above the sink of the dropship, Fareeha a room over, removing the blood of the woman she loves from her hands.)

"Is that why you've been avoiding me?  You're afraid of what you'll see?" Fareeha's voice is gentle, the same voice she uses when she attempts to convince stray cats to let her pet them.

(Once, it might have made Angela feel uncomfortable, or patronized, to be spoken to in such a tone, but now, it feels right, is what she needs.)

"Yes," Angela chokes out, forcing the admission from herself, "And also because...  because I lied to you.  I didn't mean to, but once I started I couldn't stop and—and I know how much trust matters to you, and how honest you are, and you deserve better than to be lied to so I couldn't—I don't know."

(During this admission, Fareeha drops her hand, and Angela takes the opportunity to turn her head, so as not to face Fareeha when she responds.)

"I'm sorry?" says Fareeha, "I'm not really following this.  I mean—trust is important to me, and I certainly don't appreciate people lying to me, and I'm not happy that you did—but what did you even lie about?"

(A part of Angela hoped that Fareeha might not ask this question, that she would not have to explain what happened, could avoid saying these things, but she owes Fareeha honesty, and will say what she must.)

"Well I wasn't really working late all those nights, and I wasn't falling asleep early either and I," Angela feels herself blushing, feels silly for it, "I faked an orgasm," says she, all in a rush.

(For having said it, she does feel a bit better, but not very much so.  After all, silence is what meets her.)

"Fareeha?" she asks, unable to decipher the expression on her lover's face in the dark of the room.

(Between them, there is not silence for long, but it seems longer for all of the time Angela has spent in anticipation of this conversation, in fear of it.)

"That's all?" Fareeha says, finally, sounding incredulous.  "I thought, for sure, it would be something more serious from the way you were acting.  Angela that's—that's nothing."

(Of all of the responses Angela could have imagined, this was not one of them.  Hurt, maybe, or anger, or disappointment, but not incredulity, not bemused laughter.)

"You aren't angry?" she asks, voice still uncertain.

(By all accounts, Fareeha _ought_ to be angry, she thinks, has every right to be.)

"I am," Fareeha answers, "But not about what you think.  I'm angry that you felt like you had to lie to me, rather than telling me what was wrong, and that you didn't trust me enough to work through this with me—but I'm more concerned about you right now.  I have time to be angry later, and this conversation _isn't_ over, but what you told me before is a much higher priority.  I can be angry once I know you're okay."

(Again, Angela is left off-balance; no matter how many times she went through this conversation in her head, this is not what she expected.)

When Angela does not reply, Fareeha continues, "I'm not even that angry I'm just— _fuck_." She shakes her head, "I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me this sooner, and it really hurts me that you didn't, you know?  Hurts to know that you didn't think you could trust me."

(Angela has no idea what to say to that, either.  After all, she trusts Fareeha, insofar as she trusts anyone.  Trust is not the problem, but she does not know how to explain that, cannot give voice to what is troubling her.)

"I do trust you," says she, looking Fareeha in the eye once again in the hopes of conveying her sincerity.  In response to Fareeha's expression, she repeats herself, "I do!"

(Even to her own ears, it sounds insincere.)

"Then why not tell me?" Fareeha asks, "Why do this to yourself, to both of us?  Especially knowing what you do about me, about my mother."

(Why indeed?  Why do something so self-defeating as she has?  Why push away the very person she fears losing the most?)

"I don't know," she says, "I'm just so used to losing everyone that it isn't even a question for me that I'll lose you too, one day.  If I push you away before you get killed then—then maybe it won't hurt as much."

(Because that, really, is the crux of it.  What Angela wants is some semblance of control in her life; if she can decide when the people close to her leave her life, then maybe she might spare herself some pain when they die.)

"Oh Angela," Fareeha says, pulling her close once more, "I'm not going anywhere any time soon.  I promise you that."

("I'll be back home before bedtime," her father had told her, "I'll never let go of you," her mother had said, and now this, "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.")

"You can't," she says, and wants to be angry, "You can't promise that while you keep fighting—and I know I can't ask you to stop, because that's what you want most to be doing, and where you can do the most good."

(If she were more selfish, Angela might beg Fareeha to stay on base, might ask her to retire and do something else with her life, but she knows Fareeha would never do so—and, moreover, would never be _happy_ doing so.  She loves Fareeha too much to try to shelter her.)

"You're right," says Fareeha, "I can't.  But I can try to, _will_ try to.  Do you understand?"

(Angela can feel the words vibrating in Fareeha's chest, and hears them along with the beating of her heart.)

"Yes," she says, and nothing more.

(What more could she say?  Nothing could change this truth.)

"Good," says Fareeha, "Now we should both sleep.  We have a lot to talk about in the morning."

(They do, and Angela is not particularly looking forward to it, but as she drifts to sleep in Fareeha's arms for the first time in weeks, she feels hopeful.)

"I love you," she whispers, as her eyes fall closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go... I'm finally fuckin finished... I mean it's really late but you know... better than never. 
> 
> Chapter title again from a song by The Careful Ones.
> 
> But yeah, to conclude: Fareeha is angry and they'll definitely have Words about this later but she also knows that like... sometimes you gotta wait until someone is a LITTLE less emotionally vulnerable to yell at them. They'll work it out eventually. I believe in them :')
> 
> Also this is the halfway point for main plot Plighted Hands fics... and I'm about to hit the 100k mark so >:0
> 
> As always LMK what you think & have a great rest of your day/night/afternoon/morning/whatever.
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again...
> 
> Due to the wonders of modern medicine Fareeha will be all better by next chapter. I'm not here for medical drama, tbh, or her being so passive in a story that is, ultimately, about both she and Angela. So don't worry, she'll be speaking soon, and back on her feet.
> 
> If you've read all of Plighted Hands, I'm over 50k in now, so you've read... a lot. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Fic title from Strong by 1D.
> 
> Chapter title the name of a song by The Careful Ones
> 
> Let me know what you think! See ya next time!


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